A Fool and his Money
by Cracked Bat
Summary: A tale of Lier X. Agerate, what he did with the money he got from selling the Mani Mani Statue and his eventual downfall. Rated PG for some themes later in the story.
1. Default Chapter

Lier X. Agerate took up the often-disappointing task of treasure hunting when the sign industry went through its slump in the nineties. He was a competent sign man by trade, designing, writing and posting everything from the verse on the plaque in Mrs. Peterson's flower garden to the vintage billboard that advertised music events above the Chaos Theater in Twoson.

The latter joint had cheated him out of his fair pay on grounds of a loophole in their contract. Lier tried to settle it himself, but only ended up getting a the snot beaten out of him by three security guards and a restraining order by the Twoson district court. Poetic justice was served up in a cold dish a year later when the Runaway Five, a wildly popular traveling blues band that brought in a packed house every weekend, found themselves in another phony contract that left them in deep debt to the owner. Then, from clear out of the left field, an anonymous benefactor paid their debt in one easy payment of ten thousand greenbacks. With their debt paid, the band was able to move on to bigger, better gigs and in time soared to national fame and glory in the Blues Hall of Fame. Word spread of the owner's sleazy contracts and aspiring musicians came to avoid the place like a Burmese tiger trap. The business underwent "extensive renovations" that never seemed to start or end and the owner is rumored to be living it up in cheap booze houses in Fourside. To this day, the only significant purpose the building serves is an occasional hangout for organized criminals. But that's another story.

Lier X. Agerate's very name made him a sort of outcast from mainstream society. He lived in a humble cottage on the highest hill in the area around Onett. Yes, you might know that hill from the meteorite that slammed into it awhile back. _That_ hill. If you speak to Lier about the night of the impact, he'll grin, nod with pride and reflect on the fact that he wasn't killed by the shock of impact because of his high-garlic diet and rigorous, self-designed weight-training program. If he doesn't go on about the benefits of his cutting edge work out circuits, he'll ask if you've ever admired his handiwork. At this point, it's best to compliment his physique and sign-making prowess and remember that you left the stove on or that you have to pick up milk at the drugstore before lunch.

I suppose Lier was really not a bad man at heart, just a little more eccentric and aloof than most contemporary sign makers were. But he did have a weakness that's sadly all too common in these times. He wanted more money than he could ever know what to do with and keep it all to himself. Maybe his mother couldn't afford to buy him new clothes as a child, or his father was cheated out of what would be a life-changing business deal, or maybe he watched too much trash TV after school. Whatever the reason, he made no attempts to stop wringing his hands enviously when hearing financial success stories or seeing someone command more than a hundred dollars at one time. He was not one to set his mind to working hard for a living, so he was always looking for ways to earn quick cash alongside his job.

His quest for easy money led him to prospecting in his basement. Nobody will ever know what gave him that idea, but he did it, by gum. Perhaps he remembered that Onett was founded about a hundred years ago because of a gold strike in the hills that burned out in just two years. Maybe it was something greater, a drive only understood when one reaches the rare stage of enlightenment where all is one and one is all and everything makes sense. It wasn't long before he hit a natural cavern. Most people would've been infuriated by the potential danger of their house collapsing and contacted their real estate agent, demanding to know why they weren't notified before they were sold the house. But not Lier. He quickly set up a one-man spelunking operation and ventured on armed with a pickax, a shovel and a flashlight. The natural cave turned into what looked like a crude, low, man-made tunnel that curved, then ended abruptly in a small chamber. What he saw there warranted a gasp of shock, then triumphant cry that rang through the cave complex like a joyous, if off-key, bell toll.

A boy named Ness gave the most compelling story of what Lier dug up. He was one of the first in a small circle of close acquaintances that Lier considered his friends, and trusted him to gaze at his magnificent treasure. It was a manlike idol about five feet give or take a few inches. Two lurid horns rose from either of its temples and the tip of the sword it clutched touched the ground. What struck Lier the most was that it was cast in gleaming, ancient gold. What struck the boy more than the thing's apparent value was the eyes. Its horrible, black-and-white eyes painted too large on the thing's head. They seemed to glare at him, not just through his own eyes, but into his soul. Lier told him after a minute with a breathy whisper that it would be best for him to leave before he got any greedy thoughts, all while wringing his hands as if for the firing squad. Ness wouldn't go any further with how he felt or indeed what exactly happened, and I wasn't sure I wanted to pry much further. By the way he shifted his eyes and scratched his hair, I could tell he was still unsettled by whatever really ensued in that cave beneath Lier's little cottage on that mild summer day.

The details of what happened to the idol after that point are sketchy at best. It was quickly sold to an undisclosed buyer at about the time the Happy-Happyist Cult gained a sudden spike in popularity, and subsequently violence, in Twoson. From there, rumors have circulated that the statue ended up in Fourside before vanishing into total obscurity. The few who had the displeasure of seeing it have said good riddance. I consider myself a fairly rational person. I'm as skeptical as the next guy about the phone psychics and UFO sightings in newspapers you can buy for a few quarters at the drugstore, but I don't doubt that the idol had a sort of influence on people that science hasn't been able to answer for yet. And maybe it never will. But I won't dwell on what can't be explained, only on what can. In the end of the idol episode, Lier ended up with a sum of cold, hard cash that totaled just shy of two million.

What happened afterwards is the tale of the rise and fall of a man whose ambitions and dreams were realized too quickly for his own good. It isn't a pleasant story, but neither is it too brutal. Not everybody lives happily ever after, and nobody gets the girl. But life usually works out that way, no matter how many people may try to pretend around or just deny the truths. Proceed with caution.


	2. All in a Day's Work

**CHAPTER ONEALL IN A DAY'S WORK**

Lier checked under the old bed again, and sure enough, the briefcases were still there. He knew they would be right where he left them, but it still made him glow with relief. Another night had passed. Another dream where they'd come with guns to steal his money and another morning where he'd woke up panting and shouting. He needed to relax, he told himself. Nobody even knew about the sale, right? And besides, who would come and steal from him?

But none of that worked. He'd been sitting on the two million dollars for three months now, too afraid to even feel the crisp bills unless the door was locked and the blinds were closed. And even then, it was only for a few minutes at a time. After the minutes were up, he'd lock it all up and hide it again as if someone were lurking in the shadows, ready to snatch the briefcases and run forever. Wealth was already growing to be an empty pleasure, and his life hadn't changed at all. It was time to start spending.

It was a brisk autumn morning, and thin gray clouds sailed across the sky. Lier's limbs were hairy enough to protect his skin from the wind, so he stood on his front porch in a grease-stained tank top and one of his four pairs of flannel boxers. If nothing else, his property had a great view. The little town of Onett sprawled out neatly at the bottom of the hill, which had turned yellow and red in the past weeks. It would probably be only another week before they would turn withered brown and fall to the grass. Waves of the sea's rising tide crashed against the cliffs to the west of town, and occasionally a seagull cried loud enough for Lier to hear. Then there was the town itself, a scary place under its often-boring disguise. People were always at each other's throats, whether it be a gang-related fist fight or a petty rivalry at the burger joint.

Lier had his share of conflicts. More often than not, he got the short end of the stick. Some fat, conniving pencil pusher always beat him with some dirty law or by simply waving money the right way. And they got away with it. They just sat there, grinning like jackals while he had to struggle making signs and digging in his basement just to scrape up enough for another week.

"Oh, but it's all gonna change real soon," he said, a smile dancing on his lips. "It's time to put the pigs back in the pin."

That's a lot harder than it sounds. Pigs are large, smelly and altogether stubborn creatures. Putting them in their place takes work, but it's always rewarding in the end. Pigs running free dig up the ground, crap everywhere and eat crops. Lier had enough of free-range pigs walking all over him. It wasn't _his_ fault he lived like a hermit, after all. If it weren't for the cheating, lying pigs, he could be like everyone else. It would take work, but soon the pigs would learn to fear him.

Lier was hard at work all morning concocting the perfect plan. The elections for mayor of Onett would take place in two weeks, and that bumbling Mayor Pirkle was sweating bullets over whether or not he would serve a fourth term. In the past few months, his ratings had taken quite a spike. His handling of the meteorite situation was questionable, as was his claim that he put down the brief gang riot that followed. Unusually hostile animals ran amok around the town, and the hospital filled with children who had been bitten, pecked at or otherwise mauled by once peaceful creatures. A focus group made up of mostly overweight middle-aged women and skinny men in glasses called the Fresh Breeze Movement spread a bunch of hokum in town exaggerating the local gangs' influence on children. The town even darkened for a few days and bizarre things ran amok in the hills north of town. Pirkle, in a fluster, ordered everyone to stay inside with locked doors and closed blinds. As soon as it came, the darkness receded, the things in the hills vanished and the people were left with lots of questions. How would a mayor who cared for the town possibly allow such a thing to happen? What the hell _did_ happen, anyway? Pirkle promised more security and reform in a future term, but not everyone believed him.

By that time, the Fresh Breeze Movement had become a full-fledged political party. They planned to pit their chairwoman, Loretta Carmello, against Pirkle. Their platform called for a stricter, more conservative policy towards crime and safety among other things. Frank Fly, former leader of a local gang called the Sharks and current assistant manager at Smiley Burger, also ran in hopes of toppling Pirkle's regime of incompetence and lies. While his platform was never clear, he nonetheless had a strong following amongst younger voters and those who thought the Freeze Breeze Movement, while perhaps good intentioned, was full of what made the grass green. Pirkle did his best to hold ground. He tried to garner the support of Ness, the kid who many believe to be the real peacemaker in the riot and rumored among the less intelligent to have stopped some sort of cosmic evil from totally annihilating the world. But Ness was a quiet kid, too good of a boy to get involved in politics. Instead, he pressed his policies for police reform, tax cuts and the creation of an animal control center. As it stood in the Onett Times polls, he lagged behind Frank and Loretta by a good margin. The Fresh Breeze Movement still had a grip on the majority of the votes, just barely ahead of Frank's independent platform.

It was high time to seize an opportunity to climb into the seat of power. Old Pirkle would lose the election, as politicians forced to deal with things clearly beyond their control tend to do. And good riddance! He hiked property taxes so high that Lier had to rent out his pickup truck on the weekends just to keep it. The real race was between a middle-aged matron and a young buck with a dream. Either of them would certainly appreciate two million dollars for campaign finances, among other things…The rest would work itself out.

First he'd have to make himself at least look decent. Lier knew next to nothing about fashion and cared about it even less. But he knew all too well how the pigs thought. They judged men by the wrinkles in their pants and how long someone wore a tie, and Lier wasn't sure that he'd ever even touched a tie. He'd have to play their games at first, then beat them at it. He knew the department store in Twoson, the next town over, had a prestigious clothes store, and he might even be able to rent a nice car for a few weeks while he was at it. Lier stepped inside the cottage, slipped into the overalls draped over the dresser and a white t-shirt hanging out of an open drawer.

"Just don't turn into one of them," Lier told himself aloud as he removed a few hundred dollars from a briefcase with anxious hands. He lifted the bills to his nose and took in the still-fresh scent before he folded and placed them in his overall pocket next to a broken lighter and an ancient gum wrapper. It only took three turns of the key to start the truck, which was usually a sign of good luck. He rattled down the hill and into town. Onett was small, but well-planned and considered progressive despite its unusually high rates of petty violence and paranormal activity. The city hall stood in the center of town surrounded by a little grassy park with interesting hedges and flowers. A few campaigners for the Fresh Breeze Movement advertised on the sidewalk. Peggy Smith, the third-grade teacher at Onett Elementary wore a baggy red t-shirt that read "VOTE FOR A FRESH CHANGE – CARMELLO FOR MAYOR". Next to her at a card table sat Mrs. Loretta Carmello herself, beaming and talking to a group of girls over a plate of brownies and cookies. Loretta wasn't quite overweight, and she even looked a bit attractive in her new pinstripe suit, short haircut and strategic makeup job. But she epitomized the yuppies that had moved into town over the last five years with their mini vans with cute political bumper stickers and little yard apes racing up and down the sidewalk on their skateboards. Lord knows what they actually did for a living, but they sure as heck raised the housing costs and got away with telling people who'd lived in Onett their whole lives what to do. The only reason they weren't run out of town was because of how much they spent at the stores. They'd probably buy a bag of dog poop even if the bag were old.

"Pigs," Lier mumbled as he passed the scene. A few blocks later and he was in Sharks territory. Sometimes this was a bad thing, but nine times out of ten the gang of kids only went after you if you really deserved it, and only occasionally went beyond egging and vandalism. Some of them skateboarded, which aggravated Lier to no end, especially when innocent people shared the sidewalk. But they usually stuck to their territory, and sometimes they beat up those yuppie brats. Two hooded kids sitting on the curb with a skateboard and pogo stick waved and yelled as he passed. He blew his horn, smiled and waved back. Some more Sharks finished spray-painting an ad for Frank's campaign on the board fence surrounding a vacant lot behind the arcade. Frank Fly had claimed to sever all ties with the Sharks when he started a new life. Whether or not this was true, his former gang still seemed to hold a lot of respect for him. Lier never met the guy, but he was growing more and more interested in him as news came in. Whatever he had done, he commanded quite an underground following. That was a potential that could be tapped. He spent the short trip to Twoson wondering, pondering and planning. If he had to help someone, Frank looked more promising than the other two candidates, even if his platform was uncertain. Or perhaps that's exactly why he was more promising. Lier grinned as he pulled into the parking lot of the department store.

A few hours later, he'd picked out three suits and a tie for each. One was light blue and the other two were in shades of gray. He'd also bought two pairs of leather dress shoes and even helped himself to a fedora while he was at it. Looking at himself in the mirror, he realized he would also need a better haircut. Currently, he had long, greasy black hair vaguely parted in the middle. His five-o-clock shadow was also graying at his ripe age of thirty-six. A visit to the barber fixed that. For the first time in recent memory, Lier looked at himself and realized he was pretty sharp after all. All that remained was the right transportation. Pigs hated well-loved pickup trucks almost as much as dirty overalls. He drove all over Twoson until he saw a decent-looking blue coupe for lease. A quick exchange with the owner later, he was on his way back to Onett looking like a changed man.

Lier pulled up to Frank's apartment as the sun hung low over the ocean. He lived on the southwest end of town in a small brick building mottled with stains of paint thinner used to wipe off countless taggings over the long years it had stood there. Lier had to give a Shark twenty dollars to tell him the location of his former boss's home, only to find out that Frank's address was posted in that day's Onett Times. Normally he would've hunted down that hooligan and taught him a lesson, but now twenty dollars didn't seem like so much to lose. Besides, the kid could probably come up with a lot of ways to have fun with it. And a little fun never hurt anyone

Beneath his cool, confident mask, Lier's heart nearly beat right out of his chest. It was all planned out, but in a way that almost made it scarier. What if Frank wasn't willing to cooperate? He clutched the briefcase, fingernails digging into his sweaty palm as he rang the doorbell. Frank Fly answered a few moments later. He'd changed since his gangster days. Instead of his signature red zoot suit, shades and intriguing haircut that looked like a cross between a mohawk and mullet, his style had become much more conservative. He wore a pair of blue slacks, a white dress shirt and a plain red tie. His golden blonde hair was cut short and gelled and he had recently turned twenty-one, but something in his face still bore the look of a street-smart, mischievous and charismatic youth gang boss. Frank would be a force to be reckoned with.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Hello, Frank," Lier said, smiling and offering his hand. "I'm Lier X. Agerate, and I'm wondering if you're interested in accepting some funds for your campaign."

A grin not unlike a jack-o-lantern's spread on Frank's face. Then he broke into a little laugh, and for a moment, he looked very much like a gangster again. "Lier? You're the guy who makes signs?"

There wasn't a hint of disdain in his question, only amused curiosity.

"Yeah, I'm a sign guy. That's my thing."

Frank broke into another warm chuckle that somehow didn't provoke Lier at all. "Sorry, man. Really, it's just that when I was a kid, I probably tagged all your signs. Especially the ones you made about Pirkle."

Lier put on a social grimace. "No hard feelings. I still got my paycheck."

"How about we talk more inside? I let my campaign manager do my work this evening. No point in pushing myself too hard, right?"

"I know what you mean."

Frank's apartment was small, crowded and messy. Frank didn't apologize for any of those adjectives; instead he cleared a stack of manila folders off the couch and beckoned his guest to sit.

"I ordered some pizza a few minutes ago, if you're hungry."

"Sounds great," Lier said, remembering that he hadn't had anything since the sub sandwich at noon. He set the briefcase on the coffee table with only a hint of hesitation. Nothing would happen, everything's under control…

"Should we get down to the business then?" Frank asked, sitting in the recliner across from the coffee table and resting his hand underneath his chin in a way that made him look wise and shrewd beyond his years.

"There's a million dollars in this briefcase," Lier said in a low tone, unaware of his wringing hands. He turned the combination and snapped the lid open, revealing neat, bundled rows of hundred dollar bills. Frank blinked, then slowly reached for a stack. Deep down inside, Lier felt an urge to grab the cash and wrestle it from his grip, but he just wrung his hands a little harder. Frank held the bills to his face, put them under his nose and held them up to light of the ceiling lamp.

"You're not joking, are you?"

"No."

Frank leaned forward with a hard stare, placing the money back in the briefcase. "This is crazy, Lier. Why are doing this?"

"There's some people I want to get back at," he said, finding pleasure in finally telling the whole truth to someone. "Pigs, you know. I want to punish those pencil pushers, yuppies and politicians who abuse their power, cheat me blind and steal everything I own. I wanna give them what they deserve."

Frank leaned back in the recliner, placing his hands on the armrests. "I'm glad you're in it for yourself. You can always trust people who are in it for themselves."

Then he reached back to the briefcase and shut it. Lier opened his mouth, but Frank spoke again, as cold as the wind off the ocean.

"So did you steal all this from those pigs, Lier? Or are you selling stuff?"

How had Lier come up with that money? That day no more than three months ago alluded him more and more every day. He'd found _something_ in his basement, or was it a cave? Then someone had come with the briefcases and taken the something off his hands. It no longer mattered, he thought. But now he had to lie, and lie quick. He wasn't dealing with the congenial, laid-back Frank who invited him into his apartment; he was dealing with the Frank who once commanded two dozen boys like a seasoned general and eluded the Onett Police on countless occasions.

"This money is legitimate! My great uncle got lucky in the stock market, but lived like a miser until he died and left his fortune to his closest kin. I'm his only surviving blood relation, so I inherited it."

"You better be telling the truth, Lier," pronouncing the name like 'liar'. "I have less funds than any of the other candidates and my polls are dropping. But three months ago, a kid with a baseball bat named Ness came on my own turf and beat me worse than I've ever been beaten before. I respect the hell out of him for it, because I realized I'm not the invincible leader I made myself out to be and learned there's so much more than crime. I left the Sharks and started a new life. The Fresh Breezers and Pirkle are doing all they can to use my past against me, but I'm trying to prove to Onett that I'm a changed man, and I'm never going back. If this is dirty money, Lier, hit the road and take it all with you."

It's impossible to tell a lie after a speech like that. Frank stared at the older man evenly, relaxing in his recliner.

"It's not dirty," Lier said at last.

"I believe you. I won't ask you anything else about it, okay? What do you want in exchange for all of this, besides revenge?"

"A high position in the city council in the long run. For now, I want to be your financial advisor and business partner."

"I can do that," Frank said. "Just let me tell you one more thing. I need this money more than anyone in the race and every man has his price. But I'm still the one running for mayor, and I always have the final word."

Lier couldn't help scowling a bit. He had been doing so well up until then, especially considering his lack of experience. This was a final reassurance that this kid wasn't about to take crap, not even from a wealthy father figure.

"You're a shrewd young man, Fly. I'm not trying to manipulate you."

"And you aren't calling me a young man, either."

"Got it."

"Do we have a deal?"

"Can we shake on it?"

Their hands met and each man nodded in agreement.

"Are you staying for pizza, then?"

"Sorry, I've got plans."

"Okay, how about we meet at the bakery tomorrow at one?"

"I'm open."

"It was nice doing business with you, Lier. I'll see you tomorrow at one sharp!"

"No problem."

Almost unconsciously, Lier reached for the closed briefcase, but stopped his hand halfway. He would no longer control it; it was Frank's. That's what they agreed on. But there's no way on Earth Lier would just let the kid do whatever he pleased with it. It was going to be tough, but he'd have his day.

"Oh, sorry. Just a habit," he said, smiling and placing his hand on his lap. One final goodbye ensued, and Lier headed to his car. There was still one more briefcase, he told himself. One million ain't too bad, right? He reached his house minutes later and plotted his next moves with energy he hadn't felt since he was much younger. All the while, he sat on his squeaky old bed, whistled and shuffled those wonderful, crisp greenbacks in the glow of a bare light bulb. Not bad for a day's work.


End file.
